Island - Aldous Huxley [122]
“There are some people we have to see,” the Rani went on. “Or rather One Person,” she added in a tone charged with conspiratorial significance. She smiled at Will and very nearly winked.
Pretending not to understand that she was talking about Bahu, Will uttered a noncommittal “Quite,” and commiserated with her on all the work and worry that the preparations for next week’s coming-of-age party must entail.
Murugan interrupted him. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“I’ve spent the afternoon taking an intelligent interest in Palanese education.”
“Palanese education,” the Rani echoed. And again, sorrowfully, “Palanese” (pause) “Education.” She shook her head.
“Personally,” said Will, “I liked everything I saw and heard of it—from Mr. Menon and the Principal to Elementary Practical Psychology, as taught,” he added, trying to bring Susila into the conversation, “by Mrs. MacPhail here.”
Still studiedly ignoring Susila, the Rani pointed a thick accusing finger at the scarecrows in the field below.
“Have you seen those, Mr. Farnaby?”
He had indeed. “And where but in Pala,” he asked, “can one find scarecrows which are simultaneously beautiful, efficient, and metaphysically significant?”
“And which,” said the Rani in a voice that was vibrant with a kind of sepulchral indignation, “not only scare the birds away from the rice; they also scare little children away from the very idea of God and His Avatars.” She raised her hand. “Listen!”
Tom Krishna and Mary Sarojini had been joined by five or six small companions and were making a game of tugging at the strings that worked the supernatural marionettes. From the group came a sound of shrill voices piping in unison. At their second repetition, Will made out the words of the chantey.
Pully, hauly, tug with a will;
The gods wiggle-waggle, but the sky stands still.
“Bravo!” he said, and laughed.
“I’m afraid I can’t be amused,” said the Rani severely. “It isn’t funny. It’s Tragic, Tragic.”
Will stuck to his guns. “I understand,” he said, “that these charming scarecrows were an invention of Murugan’s grandfather.”
“Murugan’s grandfather,” said the Rani, “was a very remarkable man. Remarkably intelligent, but no less remarkably perverse. Great gifts—but, alas, how maleficently used! And what made it all so much worse, he was full of False Spirituality.”
“False Spirituality?” Will eyed the enormous specimen of True Spirituality and, through the reek of hot petroleum products, inhaled the incenselike, otherworldly smell of sandalwood. “False Spirituality?” And suddenly he found himself wondering—wondering and then, with a shudder, imagining—what the Rani would look like if suddenly divested of her mystic’s uniform and exposed, exuberantly and steatopygously naked, to the light. And now multiply her into a trinity of undressed obesities, into two trinities, ten trinities. Applied Practical Psychology—with a vengeance!
“Yes, False Spirituality,” the Rani was repeating. “Talking about Liberation; but always, because of his obstinate refusal to follow the True Path, always working for greater Bondage. Acting the part of humility. But in his heart, he was so full of pride, Mr. Farnaby, that he refused to recognize any Spiritual Authority Higher than his own. The Masters, the Avatars, the Great Tradition—they meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. Hence those dreadful scarecrows. Hence that blasphemous rhyme that the children have been taught to sing. When I think of those Poor Innocent Little Ones being deliberately perverted, I find it hard to contain myself, Mr. Farnaby, I find it…”
“Listen, Mother,” said Murugan, who had been glancing impatiently and ever more openly at his wrist watch, “if we want to be back by dinnertime we’d better get going.” His tone was rudely authoritative. Being at the wheel of a car—even of this senile Baby Austin—made him feel, it was evident, considerably larger than life. Without waiting for the Rani’s answer he started the motor, shifted into low and, with a wave